Revolution
by Aeroxin
Summary: Revolutions always come at a price. Even when one struggles for peace, and justice, and all things good? Life is sure to throw a wrench in any possible situation. Mole/Gregory


Cristophe stood silently by the door, cigarette hanging from his lip, devoid of any smoke or ember. There wasn't any smoking allowed in the West Wing, and if he dared to try it he would be thrown out in a moment's notice. He couldn't afford such an interruption, so he mindlessly held it between his lips, as if he could suck the nicotine into his system. So far it had failed to work, and his nerves were on edge, threatening to shake his steel reserve apart. He had been trained for moments like this, but it was still a difficult process, even for someone as strong and detached as he was.

"Are there any changes?" Came the light voice of a redheaded Jew who strode up to him with ease, not at all put off by his outward appearance. His hair was disheveled with clumps of dirt hanging from the strands, thick blackness underlining his eyes. A shovel was strapped to his back as always, though security had _quite_ the problem with it for some reason or another. He looked like death, his pale skin a stark contrast to all the black and brown he wore. Most people stayed their distance, but not Kyle. He knew better then most, and he had grown to realize how he operated, slowly but surely.

He shook his head, uttering a simple "Non" in response. There were no movements aside from the doctors and nurses entering on their rounds, and even then they were checked thoroughly by himself. There would be no slip ups past this point, and he was sure to see it through to the end. The fact that the Jew had came personally was a little disheartening, but he shrugged it off for the moment, having more important issues to take care of. "Were tu able to obtain ze documents?" They had enlisted Kyle about two years ago, when it was discovered what an advanced hacker he truly was. He could breach Canadian internet databases within ten minutes. He could breach the United State's in twenty. He had joined reluctently at first, but once he realized what it was they were working towards, he was much more willing. As new as he was, he was dedicated, and it was appreciated by all. Even now.

Kyle couldn't help but scratch the back of his neck, nervousness setting in. His place was in front of a computer screen, not face to face and out in the open like he was now. In fact, it was against protocall but lately the rules had been sliding more and more and seemed non existent. No, he shouldn't of been there at all but he felt the need to. "Yeah, finished with them last night. The thing is..." He paused, eyes darting to the floor before gazing back into Cristophe's chocolate eyes. "They aren't all there."

He broke his concentration, seeming taken off guard for a moment, quickly regaining himself. "What do tu mean? They should all be there." This wasn't part of the plan. He needed a cigarette, but he chose to bite down on his bottom lip instead, nearly drawing blood in the process. "What iz missing?"

Kyle sighed. "The poverty statistics. Two pages in total." He had spent two solid days diving into the government's personal database, extracting hidden data and statistics that they desperately needed if they were to move forward. Two solid days of nothing but himself and the computer, and he still couldn't come across that single section. Three hundred and fifty eight pages out of three hundred and sixty. It was unacceptable, and he couldn't help but blame himself for the failure. They both stopped talking for a moment, as a doctor made his way down the hall, paying them no attention. As soon as he was far enough away and around the corner, he picked it back up. "Its hard copy only." Almost everything was backed up into digital media, but when it came to the more important things, they knew better then to give hackers a free read. Sometimes they were smart enough to keep their skeletons in the appropriate closet.

Cristophe swore under his breath, tucking his unlit cigarette behind his ear, running a heavy hand over his face. A moment of vulnerability for him, but it was fleeting at best. "I will see what I can do, beetch." Even after years of living in the United States, he preffered to keep his French accent thick and rolling, finding English to be crude and humiliating at best. They stretched out and shortened all the wrong words, and it nearly drove him up a wall. No, if he could, he would talk only in his native tongue. Unfortunately, that would make communication all but impossible. "Go." He ended the entire exchange abruptly, opening the door just enough to slip inside, shutting and locking it behind him.

Kyle was left speechless for a moment, but he didn't expect anything else from his rough-around-the-edges friend, and decided instead to stop by the cafeteria bellow before heading home. They had some of the best food around, which was surprising, and he couldn't pass up the chance for some fresh mashed potatoes. He was growing sick of Banquet frozen dinners and the occasional pizza charred black in the oven. It would give him time to actually sit down and rest his brain before going back to work. He was going to do another sweep, just to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. They couldn't afford messing it all up.

As Christophe ducked into the dark room, he couldn't help but hang his head down a little lower now that there was nobody to watch him. He was still on the defensive, ears alert, ready to move, but he didn't have to outwardly appear to be an immoveable rock. He could just be Cristophe, if only for a few minutes. He threw some of the loose change from his pockets onto the desk by the window, blinds pulled tightly shut, letting in minimal light that streamed through the cracks. One glowing row landed upon closed eyes and golden locks that went out in every direction, thoroughly covering the pillow. Without constant upkeep his hair had grown a few extra inches then normal, almost reaching past his shoulders. Still the same pale face in his favorite pale orange dress shirt, covered in heavy blankets so he wouldn't catch cold. It was like he was sleeping.

Sitting in the single wooden chair next to the bed, he tilted it forward so his knees touched the bedframe, elbows resting on the matress as he let out a soft sigh. He didn't understand a lot of things lately, but this was the biggest of all. In every mission he knew the plans inside and out, every single detail down to the last floorboard. He knew when he would go in, what his goals were, and how long it would take him to accomplish that. He would also know several escape routes at least, and a good amount of hiding places if need be. This last mission, it had been the same scenario. He was to protect the lower floor and make sure nobody accessed the file cabinet in the rear room. It held many important documents and it didn't need to fall into the wrong hands. It had gone well, everything falling into place. Until he heard that damned glass break upstairs...

- - - - -

_"Aye! What was eet up there?" Cristophe hissed out behind his cigarette, inhaling a decent amount of nicotine. Just enough to calm his growing anxieties, but he had a feeling it wasn't going to last. He was propped firmly against the file cabinet, pistol tucked in his back pocket as a last resort, three packs of cigarettes laying on the table. He was prepaired to be there for a long time, but the sound of breaking glass made him weary and nervous and for a split second he thought about leaving his post._

_One of the other guards, a young kid by the name of Alfred, shrugged his shoulders, too enthralled by daytime talk shows to actually give a shit. What a young bastard, unaware of all the dangers he was putting himself in. Luckily Cristophe could handle this by himself, so it wasn't too grating on his nerves. Yet. In another ten minutes or so, he wouldn't be surprised if he was caught shoving the remote down his throat, cursing and ranting to him about security measures and training protocol. He lived by rules; it's what kept him alive. He wasn't ready to die for anyone, not yet anyways. _

_And then there was a blood curdling scream for upstairs. In a flash he was already down the hall, pistol in his hand, cigarette dropping to the floor. "Stay 'ere you damned beetch!" If that fucker didn't stay by the file cabinet by the time he got back, he would personally skin him alive. Pounding up the stairs, he couldn't help but think the worst. They could easily infultrate from upstairs but it was unlikely due to the narrow hallway being the only way to the cabinet, giving him ultimate firing capabilities. They would suffer heavy losses, but maybe they were desperate enough to try something like it. Turning the corner, he saw a door smashed in, hanging from it's bottom hinge, the doorknob twisted at an odd angle. Whoever it was, they were strong, there wasn't a doubt about that. How strong they were, was the real question._

_Flipping the safety off his weapon, he let out a breath before racing through the door, landing on a foot and knee as he scanned the area quickly, the dim lighting making it impossible to see for a moment, his eyes straining to adjust. He spotted the broken window on the other side of the room immediately; their escape point. Why would they break in only to break out right after, not even near their target? Perhaps they had been misinformed. _

_"No." Perhaps they had a different target. Another scan of the room, and he spotted it. Or rather, him, lying on the ground, crimson staining through his chest and back. A clean bullet wound, entry point and exit point, just inches away from the heart. Lucky bastard, as long as he got the medical attention in time. Taking cautious steps forward, he looked at the man's face, dropping his pistol as he did so. In a flash he was on his knees, cellphone out of his pocket, dialing 9-1-1. This wasn't part of the plan by any means, and his mind was absolutely racing with thoughts and worries and he couldn't help but keep swearing as he tried to relay the information to the operator on the other end. "Eet iz a gunshot wound. Near te' heart. Hurry." He had given them location and distance and where exactly they were in the building. They should be here soon. If he had a vehicle, he would of done it personally, but he was instructed not to bring one. This was suppose to be a protection mission. _

_He covered the gunshot wound with his hand, trying to apply pressure without slipping in the blood. There was so much blood, how long had he been laying there? His palms were cold and sweaty but his forehead was drenched in sweat, obviously a fever. He had seen things like this before, and it rarely ended well. This shouldn't of happened. This way or that way, it shouldn't of happened in the first place. He called out his names a few time before cursing again. "What were you doing 'ere you beetch. It seemed like hours but in reality it was only a few minutes until the paramedics came through the door, cart in their hands, medical supplies already out. "Aye! Careful he is British." As if that made him fragile, like glass. "His name is Gregory." They nodded in understanding, strapping the pale figure to the cart before wheeling him out, Cristophe hot on their heels. He shoved his pistol back into his pocket, remembering that the police would be here in a few minutes time. He didn't need to be blamed for anything he didn't do. He was already in enough trouble as it was, his mind plauged with enough questions. _

- - - - -

Shaking his head, he ran a heavy hand through his dirty hair, shaking out some of the clumps and loose strands, letting it fall to the floor without care. Gregory was in a coma now, first medically induced but now he just wouldn't wake up. It was unclear as to why, and Cristophe had nearly stabbed the doctor in the throat when he was short of answers. He didn't trust Western doctors, and it seemed he had good reason to, so far. Still, he hadn't died. Not yet, and if he did end up waking up, Cristophe was sure to punch him square in the nose for all the trouble he had caused. It had been nearly a month and he still had no answers as to what he had been thinking, or why he was in that building with him. He didn't even have a clue to the target that had taken him out so easily. Gregory wasn't a fighter by any means, preffering his political expertise above all, but he knew how to handle himself. That placed the unknown person at a Grade 3 or higher. Cristophe himself was a Grade 5, so once he was discovered, it would be no problem taking him out. Especially now that they had made it personal. He could practically hear Gregory in his head, stuffy British accent rolling in his ears. 'Never make it personal. Always keep it professional'. Bah, he could make it whatever he damned well pleased at this point, without their ever so grand leader out of comission.

Together, as a group, they had moved forward with their goal, though rather slowly. Kyle made information gathering a little bit easier, but without effective leadership they were bound to scratch out one another's eyes before the end of it all. Gregory had left behind a notebook, in his office, which Cristophe had picked up before anyone else had noticed it. He had been reading it page by page, every few days, quickly learning that's what was expected of him. He was by no means a lap dog, but he knew who to be faithful to, and when. Gregory had earned his trust throughout the years, and they had become partners in their cause quite easily. Picking up the book from the table where he kept his change, he flipped open to the page he had left off from, scanning it with a dirty slender finger.

_"Ah, so you have kept reading this. I'm glad, Cristophe, I am. It was no surprise to me that you would go snooping to discover why I was there with you, but worry not, we have other things to attend to first. It will all come in time, and I shall tell you when I awaken, so push it from your thoughts. Please. Now, I'm sure that Kyle has stayed with us, since he's such a passionate young fellow. It's good because we need him just as he needs us. You'll need to obtain three hundred and sixty documents from the military, and you'll need to get them fast. They're listed on the back of this page, so don't fret about remembering them quite yet. They're statistics, Cristophe, and though I know you hate numbers, but this will be one of our deciding factors. This will prove whether or not we'll be able to bring about the revolution we so desperately crave." _

He shut the book, pinching the bridge of his nose, pulling out his cellphone. They needed those documents, one way or another. If Kyle couldn't obtain them, then they would be forced to pull a mission and infiltrate the military physically, something which he was never too excited about. The military always had fucking guard dogs, as if it were some cruel sick joke. Always with the guard dogs. Fingers awkwardly gracing the keys of his phone, he sent out a mass text to those involved with the movement, coded so it couldn't be understood by outside forces. In general terms, he sent out something alone the lines of :

"Meet at Teh Warehouse. 2100 hours. Bacon." As to why the password was bacon, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he was more tired then he had first thought. Gathering his things, he put them in order on his person, quickly scanning the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten something. He had cameras set up in the room, so even when he was gone, he knew exactly what was happening. They could be seen either from The Warehouse or his Phone, whichever he chose. His eyes would never leave the screen, that was something he was sure of. But he had other business to take care of, so he would have to watch from a distance.

He left, slowly, making sure the door was locked behind him.


End file.
